


Diversions, Distractions, and Dead Things

by Zoadgo



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Basically Just Smut, Canon Compliant, F/M, Scars, Vague Mentions of Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 18:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18555376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo
Summary: A knock sounds on Sansa’s chamber door. Just one, heavy and loud, causing Sansa’s brow to furrow. It doesn’t sound like anyone she recognizes, but there are a great many new faces around, with an equal number of new knocks that might seek her attention even at this later hour. It isn’t necessarily cause for concern, so Sansa remains seated, simply setting aside the document that she’d been paying little attention to anyway.“Enter.” Her voice is calm and sound, even though it ought to be rough with exhaustion. If she can’t school her own tone, she can hardly call herself a lady.Her door creaks as it opens; intentional, of course. She’d asked that the hinges not be oiled. It won’t stop a determined assassin, but she won’t have anyone sneak up on her in her own bed.Sandor Clegane steps into Sansa’s room quite as if he belongs there.





	Diversions, Distractions, and Dead Things

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t really remember details of previous seasons of GoT so I was super vague about things, but I love Sansa/Sandor and I had an urge to write some smut for them ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Warnings for a little bit of reference to canon compliant abuse, and for an unrealistic lack of PTSD about said events. This is mostly just a fun bit of smut I wanted to write.
> 
> Eternal thanks to [Etra](http://coldsaturn.tumblr.com) for editing, and to you all for reading/commenting/leaving kudos <3

All these faces from her past, parading in front of Sansa like some funeral procession for the life she might have led. The peace she might have had. All of them - _any_ of them - could have saved her. If they’d just been there, if they’d just known what to say, what to do.

Who to kill.

But none of that matters. What could have been is dead, as her father, as those who took what mattered so deeply to her. As the child she had been. A child might weep, might accuse, might strike out in anger and fear and loss. But she is that no more, so Sansa smiles, position as the Lady of Winterfell wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Seeping into her skin, that she may never know what it is to be without it again.

She welcomes the Queen that smells of sunlight and desert sands into her home, to the land of grey skies and snow. Deserts of different sorts, the two they hail from, and very little to bind them. It pains her to do so, but Sansa is not a Queen. Just as Jon is no longer a King, besotted with the woman in impractical white furs. She’ll never keep those clean.

The pain turns into a deep ache as Sansa must do what she can to help this new Queen, a woman who tries to play the courtly game of flattery as if she cares not for the dangers encroaching on their lands. On _her_ lands. It rubs her the wrong way. All of it, every compliment, every smile, even the hug with Jon feels wrong. 

It’s not their fault. They don’t know what she’s been through. They don’t know how she changed, what beasts she cut the pelt from to make the cloak that guards her spirit. They don’t know that her smile is no longer a gesture, but a weapon, save for with a few. A very, very few, and seemingly growing lesser by the day. Her smile fades to a frown as Jon fawns over his Queen, questions fueling turmoil within the frozen plains of Sansa’s heart.

She turns away from them, in her favourite vantage point above the streets of Winterfell. It’s no good, to dwell upon that. Not now, anyway. Whatever Jon did is working fine enough, and she’s able to manage the backlash of her brother’s decision, with an acceptable degree of success. Unless things slip from her control, she’ll let him indulge in his dalliance. In his little games with the Queen of fire, even though he is a creature born and raised in ice.

There will be little enough time for games soon, she’s certain he knows that. With another frown, she amends that thought. She hopes he knows.

There was a time Sansa would have been jealous of the attentions between the two of them. But now, the thought of it echoes along painful memories. It doesn’t strike her with fear, as it had, but it reminds her of her status. Her goal. What she must be, and will become. No, such a thing as courtship is irrelevant to her, a distant recollection as distasteful as the warm summer days of the south.

Soured, poisoned by experience.

Sansa casts her gaze below, looking for both problems and solutions. One can see a lot when people don’t know they’re being observed. But her eyes are drawn, unbidden by herself, to an unpleasant visage. A face she’s never favoured with a smile, but one that doesn’t fill her with contempt either. One carved by flame, yet icy in regard.

Of course the Hound has isolated himself from the rest of the group, with vulgar words and feral expressions. _Sandor_ , Sansa corrects herself. He doesn’t belong to a King or Queen any longer, he shook free his leash long before Sansa did. 

She thinks back to that night, leaning forward and gripping the railing in front of her. One of her many poor decisions, made of fear of the unknown. At the time, she hadn’t known how much worse the alternative could be. But she sternly pushes away any hint of regret. Her experiences shaped her into what she is now, and she is necessary. Just as Arya is, with the secrets in her eyes, and her silent footsteps. Sansa hasn’t failed to notice, that the woman bearing her sister’s name and image is hardly the same Arya she knew. Just like Sansa, a creature killed and reborn, flayed and clothed.

She hasn’t questioned how he came to be here, what his purpose is, or his allegiances. If he will fight for them, that is all that matters. She should disregard him in a moment, for the- Sandor is a known variable. She can predict him well enough, if he is even a shred of the man she knew. And men, she has found in general, do not change near as much as women.

But still, Sansa can’t look away, as he sits there sharpening a sword. There’s something old in her core, shifting in slumber at the sight of him. He’d been terrifying, of course, but there had been moments. Many of them, and important ones. Where everything felt different, and Sansa saw him in a different light. That ancient feeling cannot be realized in her new reality, but it is able to adapt to the landscape of what she has become.

It rears its head as desire, in a manner near foreign to Sansa. Not a delicate fluttering, or the violent urge with which she has watched those she despised die. Something base, bare and primal. A need to feel the strength which once protected her in a different manner. A manner less careful. The soft leather of Sansa’s gloves sighs as her knuckles clench, imagining the irreverence of Sandor’s words.

She has crafted herself into something untouchable, yet she wants him to touch her. She wants something with him that she has never had the luxury of experiencing. A satisfying struggle, an engagement in which she might come out bruised, but not broken. She knows Sandor would never truly hurt her in the ways that matter.

Not that she can be hurt in those ways. Never again. Her will to live is stronger than any suffering, Sansa knows that even if she were to experience those torments again she would not be touched by them. 

There is no way Sandor could know she’s watching him. Yet, as she imagines him touching her in the way she wants, he looks up. There was a time when Sansa would have flushed, turning away and fleeing. But she holds his gaze, raising her chin and evening her breath. A challenge, a question that he can’t possibly hope to know, let alone answer. But he curls his lips in some kind of a sneer. An unsightly expression, something he should really take care to conceal when locking eyes with the Lady of Winterfell.

So much more refreshing and honest than a smile.

Sansa almost laughs, that he should be the thing she finds comforting in her own home, surrounded by her family. But the comfort and the fulfillment offered to her by her own imaginings of his body are nothing more than idle daydreams. Much as Sansa might enjoy them, she doesn’t have the time to. Instead, with all the calm dignity she does not feel, Sansa turns away from the object of her desire, and goes back to her duties. 

There are many of them, more with every day, and very few taken off of her plate by Jon and his Queen. One would think a monarch without a Kingdom would be more invested in the management of her single Keep, but Sansa isn’t there to judge. She’s there to keep everyone alive, fed and clothed, and all the mundane tasks of waging a war. No matter how it grinds her down, attending to the needs of everyone other than herself, Sansa keeps her head high and her back straight. If she falters now, they are lost.

Meeting after meeting, form after form, every task bleeds directly into the next, and Sansa barely pays heed to the passage of time. Food is placed in front of her, and she eats it. Someone lights the torches, adding their smoke to the ever roaring fires in the hearths. As the meetings end, Sansa moves to her own chambers, well stocked with scrolls and even more forms for her attention.

She attempts to lose herself in it, to mute out the sounds beyond her windows, of what limited carousing there is. They need their diversions, the soldiers and farmers who will die far too soon. Morale is important. As the army of the living, they still need to pay attention to such things. Jon and the Queen have each other. Arya has her lurking, and according to Sansa’s sources, a man in the forge. The soldiers have their wenches, and their battle songs.

And Sansa… She doesn’t need those things. She’s beyond it. Even as her fantasies of earlier echo in her mind, she tells herself this. As long as they need her, she will be the Lady of Winterfell. Noble, untouchable, unshakeable. It’s better than the alternative. She will be the symbol that John refused to be, a leader above earthly desires.

A knock sounds on Sansa’s chamber door. Just one, heavy and loud, causing Sansa’s brow to furrow. It doesn’t sound like anyone she recognizes, but there are a great many new faces around, with an equal number of new knocks that might seek her attention even at this later hour. It isn’t necessarily cause for concern, so Sansa remains seated, simply setting aside the document that she’d been paying little attention to anyway.

“Enter.” Her voice is calm and sound, even though it ought to be rough with exhaustion. If she can’t school her own tone, she can hardly call herself a lady.

Her door creaks as it opens; intentional, of course. She’d asked that the hinges not be oiled. It won’t stop a determined assassin, but she won’t have anyone sneak up on her in her own bed. 

Sandor Clegane steps into Sansa’s room quite as if he belongs there, immediately setting Sansa off balance. He looks around casually, without offering any sort of greeting or explanation for his presence. Sansa thinks to be offended, to scold him for impropriety, but the words die before they are given any form of life. She’s curious more than anything, and watching him move about her room is distracting in ways she hadn’t fully anticipated.

Because it had been one thing to look at him from a distance, to craft a vague imagining out of half memories and a stolen glance. But now he’s here, within paces of her, his presence palpable in the room. She can hear the heaviness of his frame in the dull thud of his feet, smell the musk of sweat and leather and metal. It takes impossible control not to let her mind be taken away with thoughts of running her hands along the breadth of his shoulders, of feeling the texture of his scars that she can see so intimately from her seat.

“Never expected to see you in somewhere so humble,” Sandor rumbles, his voice that had once seemed like that of a veritable demon sending a pleasant shiver through Sansa. He reaches out and strokes the furs on her bed without shame or compunction. “Mind, it’s better than what I’ve got.”

“Did you come here to insult me?” Sansa asks, folding her hands in her lap. She falls back to the mannerisms of the proper, unable to find her footing emotionally. 

“Still proud, eh?” Sandor scoffs, still inspecting her furniture. He doesn’t look at her, which Sansa finds oddly annoying. There’s something peculiar in his disregard, something she wants to unravel.

“Hardly. I am well versed in the downfalls of pride.” Sansa weighs her words carefully. She doesn’t want to seem self pitying, but she wants him to know that she’s not the fragile thing he once knew. She wants him to know he can look at her, and she won’t turn away.

“I heard.” His words are solemn, and they turn Sansa’s blood to ice. So that’s why he won’t look at her. He thinks she’s broken. Defiled. 

Disgusting.

_It doesn’t matter_ , Sansa tells herself soundly.

“Should have come with me,” Sandor mutters, his hand forming a tight fist at his side, and Sansa’s heart begins to beat again. She’s quite sure that she wasn’t meant to hear that, but she responds anyway. 

“Did you come here to talk about the past, then?” She goads him, trying to figure out what his game is. She wants a reaction, something to go off of, to figure out which version of herself he wishes her to be.

“Fuck no, what good has the past done either of us?”

God, the curse sounds better in his rough voice than it really ought to. Sansa grits her teeth against the images that rouses, the thoughts of other ways she might hear him say it. Instead, she focuses on her little puzzle.

“Then why are you here, Sandor?” His name feels good on her lips, and she doesn’t miss the way his shoulders tense, or the small shudder as he shakes it off. 

“You were watching me,” he replies bluntly, turning his attention to her wardrobe, investigating the woodwork of it. Looking anywhere but at Sansa or her desk. It’s infuriating, even though Sansa sternly reminds herself it should be of no consequence to her.

“I’m the Lady of Winterfell. It’s part of my responsibilities to keep watch over those within its walls.” An honest statement, but not necessarily the truth. She had no real reason to be watching him, save her own selfish urges.

“Ah yes, Lady of Winterfell. So high and mighty, looking down on all those below her.” There’s obvious contempt in Sandor’s voice, which is disappointing, but hardly surprising to Sansa.

“You said you weren’t here to insult me,” she points out cooly, before continuing, “besides, would you rather I walked among the soldiers? I would do so, if I didn’t think they’d behave differently for my presence.”

“I’d rather you were honest.”

“I could say the same,” Sansa retorts in a heartbeat, finally giving in to her own urges and standing. She crosses the room to stand behind him, staring at his back with all the ferocity she has gathered. “Why are you here?”

Finally, Sandor turns to look at her, and Sansa sees why he hadn’t until then. In his eyes, there’s a mirror of the heat that burns within her when she thinks of the violent, indecent things she would like to do with him. But unlike her, he’s truthful, making no effort to conceal the way he looks at her. He licks his lips like a man dying of thirst, and Sansa finds herself desperately struggling not to do the same.

“I hope that the answers to both our questions are the same,” Sandor grates out, and Sansa echoes the sentiment silently. Desire, it’s what drove her to watch him, and what drew him to her door. She wants to tell him he’s right, to indulge in what is so close to her, a bare step needed to close the distance between them and-

Sansa gathers herself. The woman he wants is not the same woman in front of him. They might share the same face and name, but Sansa would be remiss if she led him on with the false assumption in place. The Sansa he knew is long dead, and she is another beast entirely. So she calms her breath and shakes her head.

“I’m not the girl you knew,” Sansa admits, even though she knows that by doing so it’s possible she may never have him.

Sandor scoffs derisively, “I know that.”

“It’s not just what you might have heard-” Sansa presses on, dropping her gaze, but Sandor doesn’t allow her to finish her thought. He reaches out and grips Sansa’s shoulders, tight enough that she know she would bruise if not for her heavy northern garb. It draws her attention back to his face.

“Fuck the stories. And the people who tell them,” Sandor adds with a murderous growl that sounds positively filthy to Sansa. “It’s obvious from looking at you. You’re nothing like the little thing that walked into the lion’s den.”

The words threaten to knock Sansa off her feet. To be recognized plainly, not to have to work and convince and beg for respect, it’s an impossible victory. And to be seen as something reformed, by the very man that her new self aches for- Sansa’s chest squeezes tight with emotion. 

Instead of focusing on that which threatens to overwhelm her, Sansa favours Sandor with a small, but genuine grin, laden with as much good humour as she holds. “And when were you looking at the Lady of Winterfell?”

“Any damn chance I could get.”

Honesty. It’s like a drug for Sansa, one she never wants to give up. She falls into it, into the want in Sandor’s gaze, and the firm grasp of his hands on her. She’ll be damned if she’s not strong enough to be honest with him, when he reveals such truths with enviable ease and burning intent. For a man who fears fire, he seems to be full of it.

“Kiss me,” Sansa demands. But instead of immediately complying, Sandor shakes his head.

“You know, I told myself I wouldn’t be ordered around by Lords and Ladies anymore.” Sandor looks somewhere behind Sansa, and she hates that. She wants him to look at her again, to see her, devour her with his gaze and know every inch of her.

Without hesitation, she reaches up and cups his jaw with firm intent, forcing him to meet her eyes once more. She allows him to see in her what she does in him; that his hopes were not in vain.

“I don’t say that as the Lady of Winterfell,” Sansa assures him, and Sandor’s lips curl into a gnarled imitation of a grin.

“In that case-”

Before Sansa can process the words, Sandor’s mouth is upon hers, urgent and hungry. She falters only for a moment before meeting him with her own ferocity, taking from him what her body insists she needs. Their kiss is a struggle, but a perfect one. The heated press of flesh, Sandor’s teeth against her sensitive skin, the taste of his tongue in her mouth- Sansa drowns in the moment, and she hopes never to come up for air.

All too soon, Sandor pulls away from her. Not entirely, but he rests his forehead against her temple, breath hot and heavy against Sansa’s cheek. Sansa struggles to remember how to breathe herself, brain so entangled in the delight of Sandor’s touch that she seems to have forgotten to do so. Or at least, that’s how it feels, as she pants and her heart races.

So this is what it feels like, to be touched and to want it. It shakes Sansa with its intensity, but she wants more.

She needs him.

“Damn, woman, you’ll be the death of me.”

Sansa doesn’t realize she must have spoken the last until Sandor responds, his words a bare rumble in her ear. Warmth rushes through Sansa, pooling in her core and urging her beyond any embarrassment she might have felt at her own words. Because Sandor’s hands are already moving, going to her hips, holding onto her like a lifeline.

He walks her backwards with no effort at all, entirely avoiding the bed, his mouth returning to hers before Sansa has to beg again. She’s not sure what his goal is, but she’s certain it doesn’t matter to her, as she arches into his chest, reaching up to wrap her arms around his shoulders. Sandor groans against her lips, and Sansa greedily devours the noise. More, she wants more of that. Of everything he’ll give her, everything she can take from him.

The back of Sansa’s thighs hit a hard surface, that she vaguely registers as her desk. She’s more focused on the way Sandor’s hands are moving, mapping across her lower back and pulling her impossibly closer to him. Sansa sighs into their kiss, breaking it in order to move her lips to new purpose. She seeks the edges of his ruined flesh, wanting to taste the difference, to map the topography with her tongue.

Suddenly, Sandor pulls away from her, turning the burned side of his face away from her. It’s a shock to her system, and one Sansa doesn’t care for. She doesn’t want to be denied, not by him. Not now.

“You shouldn’t,” Sandor rumbles.

“I want to,” Sansa insists. She waits a moment, to see if he’ll tell her no again, more firmly. Much as it might pain her, she would respect it. She’ll never be like those who take what is denied to them by coercion or force.

But Sandor makes no move to push her away further, so Sansa takes heart. She grabs him by the back of the neck, dragging him closer to her again, and seeks the marred flesh with her other hand. She feels the silky softness of the scar tissue, the bumps and dimples turned into mountains and valleys beneath her fingertips. As Sandor releases a deep, held breath with a shudder, Sansa leans up and kisses the lower edge of the map of ruin. 

Sandor doesn’t push her away again. In fact, he makes more of those delightful groans as she kisses along his cheekbone, down to his jaw and neck. His grip on her returns to pulling her close, crushing them together despite the increasingly infuriating clothes between them.

“Fuck,” Sandor gasps out as Sansa drags her teeth over the skin of his neck. She could hurts him so badly, like one of those rabid hunting dogs. But his exclamation is one of pleasure, not pain, and Sansa is no rabid beast. A thrill runs through her, tingling between her thighs.

Sansa is vaguely aware of Sandor looking around, his head swiveling above her, but she’s more intent on trailing bites and kisses as far down his shoulder as she can, mapping her hands over his clothes and trying to guess at the form of him beneath. He’s a warrior, strong and fierce. She can imagine the furnace-like heat of him, how the hard planes of his muscles would feel beneath her hands. 

“Oh to hell with it,” Sandor grits out. Sansa pauses in confusion for a moment before he makes his intentions clear. 

Important documents and less important forms fall from her desk to the ground, scattered by one vast sweep of Sandor’s arm. Before Sansa can make a noise of protest at his blatant disregard for all her work, Sandor lifts her and places her on the edge of the desk. His hands go to her knees, and Sansa spreads her legs as he leans forward, invading her space perfectly.

“You were spending too much damn time with those anyway,” Sandor grunts. He wastes no time in divesting Sansa of her cloak, dropping his mouth to feast on the pale skin exposed from beneath the dark furs.

“They’re-” Sansa struggles to compose words against the sweet current coursing through her, “-important.”

“Tell me,” Sandor mutters the words against her skin, the scratch of his facial hair nearly causing Sansa to whimper, “when was the last time you did something for yourself?”

“That’s not-” Whatever Sansa was going to say dies in her throat as Sandor runs his hands up her legs, slipping beneath her skirt. Sansa’s breath catches as he grasps at her thighs, his touch rough in all the right ways.

“That’s what I thought,” Sandor rumbles, sounding far too pleased with himself. She can’t really blame him, and if it means he doesn’t stop touching her, she’ll put up with his ego for now.

One of Sandor’s hands slips between her legs, seeking the apex of her need. He grinds the heel of his palm against her, forceful, yet entirely focused on her pleasure. Sansa can’t restrain the noise she makes at that, something small and desperate. She drops her head against his shoulder, hiding in the vast expanse of his chest and smothering herself in the heady scent of him. His free hand smooths over her thigh, stroking the flesh as if he owns it, as the one between her legs never ceases to move.

“That’s right,” Sandor mutters, dropping his mouth to kiss the crown of her head. Sansa breathes raggedly as he palms her through her hose, an echo of what she wants. It’s not enough, not even close. 

“Please,” Sansa gasps as Sandor teases her, touch barely enough to stoke the flames within her belly. He chuckles, breath shifting her hair, and Sansa has a shred of thought enough to think that it’s the first time she’s heard him laugh without any bitterness.

Sansa gathers her wits with sheer force of will against the pleasure swirling through her. Its delightful, melting into the safety of his embrace, but it’s not what she craves. Not in the midst of crisis. Not on the verge of war.

“Sandor,” Sansa practically moans his name, and he tenses against her. But he never stops his movements, his fingers digging bruises into her leg. “I want you.”

That gets him to pause, his breath catching audibly, and Sansa delights in it. When he manages to draw breath again, he shudders against her. He may hold her pleasure in his embrace, but she has equal power over him, and she wants to exert it.

“Fuck.” The simple curse is his only verbal response, but Sandor’s action speak loudly enough. With a noise somewhat akin to a growl, he sets his hands to new purpose, to divest Sansa of her clothes. It’s awkward, clumsy work, but with her own help, she is laid bare to him soon enough, perched upon her desk.

Sandor stills once her clothes are discarded, simply staring at her. Devouring Sansa with the burning intensity of his gaze, causing her heart to race, and she thinks she could happily stay there forever. She would hardly mind being burned alive by the fire within him.

Sansa clears her throat, marveling at the impossibility that the room seems hotter with her clothes off.

“Your turn,” She insists.

Sandor wastes no time, his eyes never leaving her body as he sheds his own, less complicated garments. Every discarded scrap of leather and fur causes Sansa’s heart to skip a beat, every bit of exposed skin making her mouth dry. Scars run, thick and numerous, over the defined lines of his muscles. His bare chest is evidently that of a warrior, one who gained his status through far more blood and struggle than the average man could stomach.

Sansa can’t stop herself from reaching out, as his hands go to the fastenings of his breeches. Her fingers tremble ever so slightly, nerves borne of eagerness rather than anxiety or reservation. She wants to feel every inch of him, her body vibrating with a singular purpose that won’t be satisfied until he is buried deep within her.

Sandor jerks beneath her touch, ever so slightly, as Sansa lays hands on him as if his skin belongs to her. Hers to touch, to know however she might want to. This is what she takes from him, but she offers herself in return. There’s no doubt in her mind, not in that moment that he knows the silent contract she writes with her fingers upon his flesh.

“Sansa,” Sandor groans her name as she digs her nails into his chest, wanting to feel his strength. To see if she can leave a mark alongside those of his past. His skin is a dark tapestry, and she wants to weave herself into the history of it, if only temporarily.

Sansa captures his mouth in a kiss once more, grasping at the firm muscles of his shoulders as Sandor’s breeches fall to the ground. She doesn’t need to look to know the truth of his desire, hot flesh nearly branding her where it brushes her thigh. Pressing further into their kiss, her grip certainly pushing on his shoulders, Sansa hooks her legs over his waist and pulls him to her.

It’s all the invitation he needs. With an animalistic noise, Sandor takes himself in hand, biting Sansa’s lower lip before sinking into her in one long stroke. Sansa pulls away from his mouth with a gasp at the blessed intrusion, burn and ache better than what she could have imagined. 

Sandor settles within her, giving her a chance to adjust that she’s never had before. But before her mind can dwell on such things, rational thought is driven from Sansa’s mind entirely by Sandor dropping his mouth to her neck, teeth dragging a tantalizing promise. His hands tangle in her hair and Sansa leans into it all. The strength, the control, the idea of bearing his mark upon her neck. Not that anyone would see, with her cloak bundled tight against the onsetting ravages of winter, but she would know.

Gently distracting her with the sweet torment of his mouth upon her neck, Sandor begins to move within her. His thrusts are long and slow at first, but Sansa squirms against him, demanding with her body what she can’t think clearly enough to verbalize. It works fine enough, as Sandor growls against her throat and moves with a more intense purpose.

Sansa moans as she loses herself in the harsh pleasures being served up to her. It’s nothing that she ever should have wanted, everywhere Sandor touches her being on the verge of pain. Yet the punishing pace of his thrusts sets the perfect counterpart to the primal hunger growing within her. 

Sansa arches against him as Sandor bites down harder on the tender flesh of her shoulder, surely leaving a mark she’ll bear for days. She imagines herself able to feel it during a meeting, throbbing beneath her clothes. Any time it might fade, she could seek him out, and they could make a new one. Sansa curls her nails into the skin of his back, doubtlessly drawing blood, as she hopes they’ll have enough time for that.

Desperate not to let the coming winter slip into her mind, Sansa drags his mouth back to hers, hands tangling in Sandor’s thin hair as his are in her’s. It’s a sloppy kiss as they move together, pleasure building with rapid certainty. Sweat and the slick slide of flesh and hot breaths are the only things that matter, her world fades and focuses until it is only him and her.

“Sandor,” Sansa gasps against his lips, begging for something she needs, but doesn’t understand. He curses in response, redoubling his efforts, and Sansa cries out. It may have been his name again, or some wordless noise of ecstasy. She doesn’t know, and she doesn’t particularly care.

She reaches the peak of her desire with Sandor buried deep between her thighs, clenching around him and holding onto him as if afraid that at any moment he could be taken from her. In turn, he holds to her just as fiercely, pumping a few more times beyond her own completion before spilling himself within her. Warmth of a softer kind spreads through Sansa, intermingling with the bliss she had so desperately sought.

Sandor trails kisses along Sansa’s jaw, coming to rest with his nose tucked against her temple. His grip that had been bruising relaxes, but he doesn’t let her go, enveloping Sansa in the heavy security of him.

“I’ll kill them all,” Sandor mutters in her ear, words that might have been chilling to any other woman are sensual to Sansa. “Every bastard who ever hurt you.”

“They’re already dead,” Sansa muses. It’s not strictly speaking true, but the worst offenders are gone. Those that she couldn’t abide living in the same world as.

“Then I’ll get that priest bastard to bring them back and kill them twice,” Sandor growls. 

In his deep embrace, with his threats against the dead themselves hanging in the air, Sansa feels truly comfortable for the first time in far too long. There’s much work to be done, but somehow, it doesn’t seem quite as daunting now.


End file.
